


Another Line of Work Presents Itself

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, Trope Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1987704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While wandering around a sun-warmed small town in central Cardassia Julian Bashir finds exactly what he was looking for. And a refreshing drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Line of Work Presents Itself

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to tinsnip for the gentle yet thorough beta. I guess I'm still riding the 'tropes! all aboard for tropes!' train.

“You might not see me for a handful of days. There’s a little matter in Tarlan’or that I have to observe for myself,” Garak said, over breakfast. 

Julian blithely knocked back his egg-floating-in-rokassa-juice (‘efficiency’ he said, ‘near-sacrilege’ countered his housemate) and helped himself to a pinch of crusty bread.

“For their sake, I hope there’s nothing to see.”

Garak said nothing, only stretched with a distinct air of satisfaction and wandered off with his share of the dishes, humming some aria or other under his breath. Julian watched, smiling. He knew Garak needed these little ‘field trips’. At least this one was aptly timed for a change: Julian was scheduled to do demonstrations at his sponsor-hospital and he had several reports to write.

Technically the Order was defunct and dissolved. He remembered a quote of Peral’s that amounted to ‘you are never so safe to recover as when all others think you are dead.’ But the Order was dead, of course, with a reported staggering 96% fatality rate (higher, for officers) which was probably even accurate. How the Dominion had hated and feared Tain’s chosen people!

Curiously enough, the fledgling Reconstruction Ministry had managed to find and retain several top-notch field agents. Naturally none of them were labeled as such. Really, Garak’s own entirely fabricated ‘District Inspector’ title came closest to stating things outright. He remembered pulling a face when Garak had informed him of his new designation.

“Do you really think you’re fooling anyone?” he had asked, mostly teasing. 

“On the contrary my dear. It’s inconceivable that a man would reach my position without learning to delegate.” Then he had winked. He’s gotten much better at the gesture. Years ago it had looked as if he’d only forgotten to blink with the other eye. 

“Of course, even a simple government administrator like myself must occasionally review the everyday tasks of the position. If only to evaluate their subordinates.” Now that had been a sentence pickled in sincerest insincerity. As if Garak didn’t thoroughly enjoy slipping off on his little “assignments.”

The Garak he knew now on Cardassia was happier, much happier than he had been before but he was not what you’d call at peace, not tamed by his return. He would never be only a tailor or a revolutionary or a District Inspector or any one thing. His was a fluid state that passed through cracks and crevices and flowed from sea to mountain to wherever he pleased. Cardassia itself with all the secrets folded into its landscapes seemed barely large enough to hold him. His only resting state seemed to be in Julian’s arms, quite late at night. Or in the little day to day moments of their life, a life crafted by two previously lonely men who both felt as if they had engaged each other in a long-term agreement to play ‘house’ and that it was a wonderful game. 

\- - -

In the morning he packed Garak a medkit, kissed him thoroughly and scandalously in front of their walkway plants outside the door and watched the little flyer make a one-person star against the evening sky.

Half a handful of days later he has mysteriously finished all his demonstrations and written all of his reports. Even the one requested by the state medical archive for his new effective treatment for Stage II Podrick Syndrome which had demanded real paper, with calligraphy. He had hemmed and hawed(alone, for once, without even the quiet susurration of his friend displacing air as he stood over his shoulder) and then completely lost himself for the rest of the day, emerging with ink-stained forearms and what he thought even Garak would have to call a credible effort. The requirement didn’t seem so ridiculously self-aggrandizing then: a cure, even a partial cure, was a beautiful thing.

He sprawled on the lip of the deck overlooking the garden, letting the fluffy tips of the grass stroke along his bare feet, and meticulously went through the actual words his husband had said.

Well Garak had told him exactly where he was going. That meant a lot of things: that this wasn’t something outright, first-layer dangerous. That Julian wouldn’t necessarily compromise anything by showing up. 

He’d done that, once before, by accident. Maybe by accident. He’d been on rotation in one of the makeshift crossroads towns that had sprung up from a lot of non-essential freight being temporarily knocked back into ground caravan routes. The esteemed Healer Bashir had braved the marketplace, relieved to see a handful of other aliens among the gathering and then almost tripped over a dirt clod because he had seen a flower seller with a familiar silhouette.

It had taken two passes, always with the flow of the crowd, for him to be sure. He had seen Garak work but never had a chance to observe him performing such traditional surveillance. Downright Holmesian was the technique that transformed his friend’s exacting carriage into a service-class vendor’s easy-limbed sprawl. He wore a mesh shirt under a leather apron and dirt-streaked calf-length workman’s pants, his hair was in a defiantly age-inappropriate messy topknot and his nails had been painted the shade of ‘deplorable’ orange exactly the same color of one of Julian’s few self-bought shirts. Though it was also a color linked to one of the local populist political parties.

He had to marvel at how the cover itself did so much of the work. The pungent yellow stalks of a local prairie flower masked his familiar scent. It would be very simple to pass messages or data-sticks among the bulky wrapping paper and garish plastic ribbon trims for the bouquets. 

He had bought a handful of seth’tels at the fruit stall next door; without nervous gestures, without looking for the dashing streak of silver in his hair, letting his eyes pass over everything, and he’d walked away with a group of nurses he vaguely remembered from a different aid station. Once he’d gotten back to the healer’s hostel he’d found a stiff seven-petaled desert lily in a pocket of his sun-cloak.  It had been… thrilling.

Now, lying on the deck, his hand wandered until it got to the marks that dappled his shoulders. From the way it felt when he pressed into them he could tell they were fading. _Really now_ , he thought, _getting a bit codependent there Dr. Bashir_ , but his body was already uncoiling and walking over to the household terminal, logging into the Volunteer Service Network, picking out a shift in a neighboring town.

\- - -

Tarlan’or barely merited the ‘or.’ Election-pennants eeled lazily above the streetlamps in the warm breeze. Ah, so there was the reason for Garak’s interest. 

Fraud to the advantage of the prior reigning oligarchs(the few who were still alive, and the lucky new crop who had managed to inherit some power) tended to snowball and these little townships were fertile grounds for testing out some new devilry. Garak had always been a great believer in preventative measures and he was territorial in the worst way towards anything that would threaten the new Cardassia. In his mind it seemed to occupy the empty spaces of Mother, Father, and God with all the attendant reverence. And at the same time something more manageable: a treasured, harshly-pruned tree whose fresh growth he was trying to coax into a new direction.

Still, whoever he found now (if he found anyone) would not disappear into a labyrinth of dark rooms. The evidence would make its way higher up the ministry and they would be arrested and tried. Everything would be kept in the light, if only as an example to the others.

His volunteer shift started after the evening meal, so he had nowhere to be for a couple of hours. It was futile to chase his quarry, and he felt proud of himself for being patient enough to take the sensible approach. Garak would either turn up or he wouldn’t. The mission was to wander and marvel and stick out like a sore thumb which he managed superbly via the being-Human bit. His pick of inviting little side-streets wound and sprawled down the side of the city-hill, their pinkish clay bricks glowing in the afternoon heat.

After an hour of spent in their company, chaperoned by the setting but still-powerful sun, he decided that wandering was all well and good but he should really do his best to wander into somewhere he could get a drink.

\- - - 

Amat was surprised when the Human walked into her shop. She’d never seen one in the flesh before and at first glance it was a fragile-looking creature, taller than she’d expected, with long wood-colored limbs swaying gracefully under a lilac sun-cloak. It had a hospital-branded medical satchel with the matching symbol over the wrist. 

A transplant, then. Healing centers made good use of the ones on loan from the Federati during the early reconstruction. Some were apparently quite clever, and they all had a dogged alien endurance and would eat anything. Bizarrely, some of them had chosen to stay in the Homeland. Truly an alien species: to break and form dwelling attachments so easily.

She couldn’t even properly tell if it was male or female. Male, she guessed, from the childlike wonder on its face and the way it swept its head from side to side to take in the colored glass windows. A woman would have done the sensible thing and looked at the menu first. 

Looking at his face made her a trifle uncomfortable. She knew she was being rude, staring, but they were less sensitive to this sort of thing, weren’t they? And really it was as if someone had thrown a normal person into the sea for a hundred years and they’d come out worn smooth like a pebble. When he leaned on the counter and asked for an iced red-leaf tea in only slightly accented proper speech she couldn’t prevent herself from stiffening with surprise. 

Her newest employee hadn’t seemed surprised at all. The barman answered without turning around from where he was peeling desert melons with precise flicks of the sickle knife. Perhaps he was also slightly discomfited by the alien.

"I must insist, the young sir should really try the ice-blended melon kvar instead. The juice is the local specialty, and the drink is mine." 

Oh my, she might have been be wrong about that. Not discomfited at all. The Human started, blinking twice but managed a creditable recovery. 

"You know I had my heart set on the iced tea. I suppose brewers with forceful opinions are also a local specialty."  

“Now, now, a traveller gets nowhere by being inflexible."

"I suppose I should do the proper thing and defer to your age and wisdom. That's how things are around here, I've come to learn."

"One gets the feeling that the customer has come to learn a lot of things. Your language-tutor should certainly be commended. Or is it your sponsor?"

The query about patronage and by some extension sexual availability seemed to sail right past the poor thing’s ear. 

Amat noted that her barman was nearly done with the drink. All throughout the exchange his hands had been efficiently selecting and measuring from the chest-of-drawers with the powders, as if he’d been certain of the eventual victory from the very start of the conversation.  A decisive stroke of the knife eviscerated a small melon, hooked and carried a piece into the juice press.  Now his nails were flicking elegantly against the keys of the shop’s antique record keeper.

The Human raised one suspiciously normal-looking hand to forestall any more argument and found himself presented with the drink, finished with all the flourishes and poured into one of the better cups. It was obvious he was both frustrated and tempted, quite in spite of himself. Funny how the body language translated. 

"Do be careful, young sir. The proprietor would have my hide if I let one of these old crystal ones break."

It was a bold move - handing the drink over directly, in that it forced the Human to cup his hands over the offered glass, causing their fingers to touch. There was the faintest suggestion of a caress as he withdrew them. The Human shivered from crest to toes.

"I suppose I should finish it quickly then." 

He did, tipping the glass backwards like a child, displaying to full effect that oddly fragile neck. Setting the empty glass down, he fished a handful of triangular coins out of his satchel and left a stack of them. One more than necessary, she noted, on the counter. 

“Thank you for the advice.” he said mildly - a polite but firm refusal to escalate further. “I have a friend who would appreciate this flavor. ”

Amat resisted the urge to smile into her sleeve. How the flirt had missed the mark! She found herself pleased, appreciative of his loyalty. Perhaps not such a flighty species after all. On his way out the door the transplant-Healer turned to her(and when she thought she was so good at keeping still!) and gave her a deferential bow. Charming, really. 

The barman watched him leave with a flash of wistfulness and then pragmatically began to sanitize the customer’s cup.

A little noise and the presence-awareness sense told her that her other employee was back from the storeroom. Rikani set down the spice canister and, cutting her eyes towards the counter, made a gesture as if she was brushing dirt off the tips of her fingers. A rather drastic reversal of opinion. Just this morning Rikani had mentioned introducing their newest employee to her sister.

“Really cousin, are we that desperate?” 

At first look it had seemed too good to be true. A comely man of a respectable age who knew dozens of drink recipes by heart and understood enough about electronics to fix the temperamental grinder himself whenever it stalled? Women she hadn’t seen since the rationing lines had suddenly found enough money to buy a drink and then sit around nursing it to the very limits of politeness. Profit and gossip had both been quantifiably on the rise.                                                

She had frankly been a trifle suspicious. Then again who didn’t have a checkered work history in the reconstruction years. But now things rather made sense. He must have been a spaceport-worker - charming, easily gracious to foreigners and apparently with all the attendant predilections. 

“It can’t be helped. We’re short staffed.” she said, fishing the rag out of her apron and briskly wiping down the window table. “He may be a degenerate xenophile but by Morgund he makes a great iced Raktajino.”

\- - -

( a small epilogue, sometime later )

A handful and one days later Julian wakes up with warm feet. 

He’s had his own hard and hungry days when he first came here, his sensitive more-than-Human ears sending him starting awake at every little creak-could-be-a-footstep in the night. As usual Garak is the exception to the rule. Julian could make a two-handed tally of the times he’s fallen asleep in the study and woken up cradled on his lap in the garden. 

There is a wealth of husband now in his previously empty bed and like a greedy child with gifts within reach he can’t lie still. He has to reach out and confirm, flex his toes against the bed-warmed calves, feel the weight of his hair slipping through his fingers, lay his cheek in the vast space between collarbone and chin. All this behavior gets him a soft growl with the slightest beseeching upward inflection.

“It’s your own fault you know. You’ve taught me well, and now I’m far too suspicious to just lie here dozing. I have to make sure another man hasn’t wandered into my bed by mistake.” he whispers as his arm curls around his bedmate’s ribs, pushing them closer. His stomach flutters pleasantly at the familiar texture of the other man’s hips.

“Mhmmm.” Garak doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. “I would be very impressed if this mystery man made it over the hedges without incident. I recall I’ve left some gardening tools lying around…”

Julian smirks as he kisses his favorite temple-vein. He’d helped with that - tripwires were easier as a two-man job.

“Are _you_ in any way amenable to bribes this morning? The Chief Executor in that charming little town wasn’t, good for her, but I’ve left you a distraction in the kitchen.” 

Something about the fervent way Garak’s tangled his fingers in the loops of the knitted outer blanket suggests that he’s just barely gotten into bed and would really rather stay there, quiet and suspiciously inert. He gets in one more full-body squeeze and relents. Let it never be said that Julian Subatoi Bashir is not a merciful man. 

Besides, there’s still something quite touching about seeing Garak dead-to-the-world asleep in his presence. Maybe he could get a PADD and sit very quietly in the armchair so that he doesn’t miss the moment he emerges from the bed, messy-haired and satisfied. All the better to push him back in.

For now he tiptoes upstairs to the kitchen. A perfect cup of red leaf tea, with little jeweled green drops of seth’tel-jelly bobbing on the surface, is steaming on the counter. He cups it in his hands and smiles.  
 

-fin-


End file.
